


Testing Limits (Or Just Being Testy)

by rosewiththorns



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen, NHL, Tampa Bay Lightning, Testing Boundaries, mentoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 16:21:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3698945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/rosewiththorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon and Stammer learn not to piss one another off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Testing Limits (Or Just Being Testy)

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by Jon Cooper’s recent interview with Sportsnet where he responded to a light-hearted suggestion that he not piss Stamkos off with a comment that “we’ve gone through that road already.”

“See here?” Jon pointed with a ballpoint pen at the paused television screen on which was an image of Stammer frozen in motion, forever turning the puck over inside his blue line. “You can’t serve up free turnovers inside your own blue line. That’s what caused the goal against.” 

“I’m not blind.” Steven’s blue eyes cackled like the hottest parts of a flame, and Jon figured that he should have predicted that eventually he would encounter some resistance from this famous young athlete. Sure, Alexander Ovechkin was supposed to have a monopoly on the superstar scorer with an attitude who bathed in the blood of coaches he killed on a whim act, and Stammer was defined as the golden boy-next-door (assuming, of course, that the boy-next-door happened to win Rocket Richard Trophies and get nominated for the Hart on a regular basis), but the average boy-next-door could be quite stubborn and sarcastic once he had hit rock bottom and demonstrated signs of starting to dig. “I know.” 

Arching an eyebrow, Jon suggested tart as a lemon, “If you know, you could try to remember.” 

“My photographic memory is packed with all the goals I score.” Steven’s tone was an elaborate eye roll. “Not to worry, though. I bet you won’t let me forget.” 

“No, I won’t.” Jon crossed his arms over his chest to make it plain as daylight that he would not be moved, because he figured that being on his fourth coach in five NHL seasons would prompt Stammer to harbor under the delusion that coaches were more likely to be altered year by year than the decor of the office they were standing in. In Steven’s mind, coaches were probably ever-changing decorations: easy to push around like furniture to be arranged on a designer’s command or to be peeled away like wallpaper to reveal blank plaster ready to be painted an agreeable color. 

Deep in the pit of his gut—a place he relied on for coaching wisdom as much as he did his brain or heart—Jon intuitively recognized that he had to draw a line in the sand at this juncture, so that he wouldn’t find himself perpetually waging a tug-of-war with one of his star players. “I won’t let you speak to me like that, either. Talk to me like I’m someone you respect.” 

“Whatever.” As he offered this trademark ‘90s kid dismissal, Steven inspected the cuticles of his left hand as if they were far more interesting and important than his coach. 

Wishing that the classy Stammer who was always careful to defer to veterans such as Vinny and Marty around the rink would return to duty after abruptly going AWOL, Jon ordered tersely, “Try again, Steven. ‘Whatever’ isn’t a polite answer.” 

Tilting his head slightly to the right, Steven studied Jon as if searching for a clue about how long it would be safe to persist in his rebellion, and then with a gusty exhale, he lowered his weapons. “Yes, Coach. Sorry for being a spoiled brat.” 

“It’s okay.” Relenting because his objective was to build a relationship by bending Stammer’s will not establish authority by breaking it, Jon clapped Steven on the back. Putting himself in Stammer’s shoes and envisioning how grating it would be as a superstar NHL forward to have to listen to a wet-behind-the-ears rookie coach just promoted from the AHL ranks, he added, “I understand that it probably pisses you off when I point out your mistakes.” 

“I’m not pissed off at you for pointing them out.” Steven massaged his temples as though he were suffering from a migraine and was in dire need of an Aspirin. “I’m pissed off at myself for making them, because they get in the way of winning, and I want to win more than anything. Heck, I don’t blame you for being pissed off at me when I screw up in my own end, since I know I’m a total disaster waiting to happen there.” 

“I’m not pissed off at you.” Jon’s mouth twisted into a small smile. “Just a bit stern and irritated. There’s a difference.” 

“Something tells me I don’t want to discover firsthand what it is.” Stammer’s grin was as crooked as his voice. “I like you, Coach, so I’ll try not to piss you off. Cross my heart and hope to die.” 

“Was this all just a test to see if you’d still like me if I got pissed off at you?” As a sudden suspicion dawned on him like the sun rising over the Atlantic, Jon shot Steven a sharp glance, because he didn’t relish the notion of being anyone’s test dummy. 

“More like a test to see if you’d still like me if I pissed you off.” Steven’s eyes were wide and innocent as mountain lakes in summer. “Even in Florida, nobody can be sunshine all the time, so I had to know…” 

“I’ll always like you.” Jon draped an arm around Steven’s shoulder. Then, to offset his affection with discipline, he warned, “No more subjection me to any further tests, Stammer. I might not always be so pleasant when you piss me off.” 

“Gotcha, Coop.” Fully transitioned back to his typical happy-go-lucky self, Steven chuckled. “I guess we’ll try not to piss each other off.”


End file.
